Anthalan Duskweaver was born in Goldenmist Village eighty-seven years ago. His parents were jewelers in the village. As a boy and into his adult years, he was trained as a priest of the Light. As a priest, he was more interested in research than healing, and was often in libraries studying.

Before the Third War, his research took a dark twist, and he eventually was contacted by the Cult of the Damned. The elf priest was tempted by power and forbidden learning, while still mostly ignorant of the Cult’s true motives. He joined the new batch of students at the school, and by the time he realized the Cult’s true aims, he was enthralled by Kel’Thuzad’s teachings.

Anthalan Duskweaver returned to Quel’thalas just before the Scourge invasion, only for a short time. He still participated a bit in healing the sick, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. He got his affairs in order, sold his property, and left for Lordaeron. The next time he saw Quel’thalas was as a necromancer, supporting the Scourge in their march to the Sunwell.

Anthalan stayed in Lordaeron, at the Scholomance, when Arthas left for Northrend, after Sylvanas’s betrayal. He worked within the Cult of the Damned for years, until after the Lich King’s fall and Deathwing’s reemergence.

Anthalan was contacted initially by Aegnas Vileblade, a death knight in Kirenestus Duskhallow’s employ. The death knight remembered Anthalan’s work with the Cult and offered him a chance to work with an organization not being actively stamped out by the Argent Crusade. Anthalan eventually agreed, and met with Kirenestus to discuss details of his employment.

Anthalan still practices necromancy in the seclusion of Kirenestus’s estate in Goldenmist Village. The estate’s runestones are designed to hide the signs of the forbidden magic practiced there, but there are definite signs. A gargoyle guards the estate and answers only to Anthalan and Solandis. Tombstalker, Solandis’s ghoul, follows Anthalan almost as well as he does his death knight master. A geist also guards the estate.

Anthalan works closely with Solandis Blightweaver in the creation of new plagues and improved undead. Their work is carefully catalogued and the undead destroyed, as the household doesn’t wish to attract attention.

Recently, Anthalan has been in contact with several old friends within the Cult of the Damned. Whether this reflects a cooling of relations between him and Kirenestus or just a renewal of ties within the Cult is anyone’s guess. Magister Duskhallow and his brother, Aegnas Vileblade, are too busy with activities on the Isle of Thunder to have heard of Anthalan’s activities, and Solandis Blightweaver hasn’t enlightened them.

The estate was a riot of noise when Anthalan returned. Ghouls rattled cages, and yells from elsewhere in the estate suggested the dead weren’t the only things in the house. Thalarion sat on top of an empty crate, watching Solandis wrestle another ghoul into its cage.

“How are things going?” Anthalan sounded bone weary, and he barely looked up at Thalarion.

“Decent. They’re putting up a fight, but Solandis can handle it. We lost one of the diggers.” Thalarion pointed to a corpse on the floor of one the cages.

Anthalan shook his head. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I’m too tired tonight. I just want to sleep.”

Thalarion jumped down from the crate and put an arm around Anthalan. He herded the necromancer back to their room. He pushed the necromancer’s red and gray robe from his shoulders, then turned to hang it in the wardrobe. “What happened?”

Anthalan shook his head. “Something disturbing. Rosefica is going to recover this time, but…” He broke off. “Aegnas and Kirenestus can’t know, they’d study the poor girl like one of our experiments.”

Thalarion looked concerned, but nodded slowly. “My lips are sealed. Come on, I ran you a hot bath. Figured you’d want whatever you were working with off before bed.”

“Sounds heavenly.” He leaned on Thalarion and they headed for their bathroom.

Kelenar sat cross-legged on a rock on the edge of a quiet lake. A small, worn book lay off to the side, in the grass, forgotten for now. Afternoon sunlight beat down on him and nearby, birds sang. Sensitive ears could hear the buzz of insects, the lapping of water against the shore, and wind high up in the trees. The heat prickled and started to burn his skin, but he welcomed it as he sat there, trying to clear his mind. It was an echo of what he’d be feeling later tonight, when the Light would burn him. He put the thought out of his mind, and any thought except the feeling of the rock beneath him out of his mind. Breathe in. Hold for several moments. Breathe out. The air of New Haven had a different smell than that of Eversong where he was so used to doing this. Underneath the strong smell of pine, he could almost smell those graceful trees. It was a smell ingrained in his memory.

“Daddy, daddy, look!” A chubby toddler ran barefoot across the grass to the river’s edge where he sat. Her red hair was fine and short, and wild as a lynx’s pelt. She held a tiny dragonhawk hatchling clutched to her dirt-stained dress. “Mama says I can keep this one!”

Kelenar gave her a wide grin and reached forward to take the tiny chick from her. He cupped the tiny creature in his hands and looked it over carefully. Its eyes were open, and its first set of feathers had begun to grow in, but its weight was under what it should have been and mites crawled around on the tiny body. He smiled up at his daughter and asked, “Remember the prayer I taught you, for curing sickness?” He smiled wider when she nodded seriously and began to recite the prayer in Thalassian. He murmured the prayer along with her, and the little hatchling squirmed in his hands as the Light washed over it like a blast of hot air. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but over before the tiny dragonhawk could do more than squeak indignantly. He handed the dragonhawk back to his daughter and said, “Take her inside the house and make sure mama gives her a warm bath, okay?”

“Yes, daddy.” The little girl ran back to the family’s house. Even from where he sat, he could hear her yelling for his wife. Kelenar shook his head and laughed softly. The little hatchling was in good hands.

Kelenar frowned hard and dismissed the memory. It didn’t happen that long ago, but sometimes it seemed like ages had passed since he’d last seen his daughter. Other times he remembered the last time he saw his family like it was yesterday. Tension had been high. They’d known for days that the Scourge was on the move. No one had ever dreamed of what would happen though. Kelenar’s frown deepened, and he brushed away a fly absently as his thoughts drifted.

“You should take Ellari and head to the city. We’ve transported most of the sick there already.” Kelenar looked haggard. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair fell stringy and limp around his face. His robes were stained in places with dirt. He hadn’t slept in days, ever since word had come that the Scourge was on the move. He’d been busy overseeing the transport of patients from the village to Silvermoon City. Behind the gate, they’d be as safe as they could be from the approaching Scourge.

“We’ll be fine. I don’t want Ellari all alone there, and I need to be here in case anyone else needs a portal into the city. We’ll be along with the last of the evacuees.” She handed him a glass full of fruit juice. “Drink. The last thing we need is for you to pass out from exhaustion.”

He waved the glass off. “I’m fine.” At her worried look, he gave her a weary smile. “Really, I’m fine. Once we get everyone into the city, I’ll rest.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a bit of wrapped meat. “For Sunspark. It should put her to sleep for a while. Make sure she gets to the city, too. I’d hate for Ellari to be worried over the dragonhawk.” He looked out where Ellari played with the dragonhawk, sighed worriedly, and headed for the door. “I’ll see you in Falconwing Square just as soon as I can.” His last words to her.

Kelenar glared at the water and dismissed the memory. He reached up with one hand and angrily swiped at his eyes. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. In. Out. Slowly, he calmed. He could hear the birds again. Feel the unrelenting afternoon heat. The Scourge. He remembered the last time he’d been called to heal someone like this. The Scourge had been involved then, too. Only, the Plague was far more deadly than this “disease”, and almost impossible to cleanse.

The figure was bandaged so much that Kelenar couldn’t tell if it was male or female, or even whether it was human or elf. Though the injuries healed, the deep, lingering cough and moans of pain bespoke deeper problems, as did the strict quarantine the patient was kept in. Kelenar had heard the whispers earlier. Plague. He knelt beside the patient and touched an unbandaged portion of the patient’s face. The skin was cold and clammy. He frowned. He would have expected a fever, but the disease had advanced far past the point of no return. He sighed and began unwrapping the bandages so that he could touch more of the patient’s face. Underneath the layers of cloth, the patient was clearly a young human man, probably barely of age to train in the military, and now he would die in the snow of Northrend. Kelenar shook his head. There was little he could do for the Plague, but the boy’s commander insisted he try, and so he would.

He placed his hands on either side of the boy’s head. Unlike his human counterparts, Kelenar did not pray over the boy’s unconscious body. The Sin’dorei could channel the Sunwell’s radiance from anywhere on Azeroth, and the Light that played lightly over the boy’s skin was the same Light that burned at the heart of that sacred site. Kelenar felt it like a warm breeze over his skin, under his skin, all the way through him. Superficial wounds on the boy’s skin healed, and Kelenar traced a hand down his face till it rested against the pulse in the boy’s throat. Weak. Kelenar frowned. He said softly in Thalassian, “The human is very weak. He probably won’t survive the cleansing process.”

“You’ve got to try, please. We wouldn’t have made it out there without him.” The human’s commander was a haggard-looking Quel’dorei, bound almost as much as the lad was in bandages.

“No guarantees. The Plague is resistant to Light even in healthier individuals. Call the guards. If he turns, he’ll have to be killed.” Kelenar didn’t wait for confirmation, but instead looked back at the boy. The Light he channeled grew warmer, scalding even, as called on even more of it to burn away the infection. He hissed in pain, but he was scarcely aware of the world around him. He was far more focused on directing the burning energy. First the boy’s head. Nothing could be seen but a soft, golden glow, but the boy tossed and cried out as if it were fire. Kelenar directed it, controlled it, used the Light to scald away any impurities he could sense. The pulse under his fingers was still very weak, but now it raced as if he were fighting for his life again. Perhaps he was. If he died, he would come back as the Lich King’s minion.

He pushed the Light lower, down the boy’s throat and into his chest. Searing Light purified everything it touched, but it was the purity left after a fire. He could sense organs failing as the Light pushed them past endurance but he could do little more than gasp out a quick, “Heal him, quickly!” before continuing with the cleansing. His own skin felt like it was on fire, and he felt rather than saw the many hands holding the boy’s writhing form down. Down farther, and the Plague was mostly cleansed from his body. Then something broke. His heart gave out under the strain and the agony. Kelenar felt the pulse under his fingers weaken, and then hands were pulling him back as the boy’s eyes opened and he struggled harder than he should have been able to against his captors.

Kelenar was too weak to watch as they dealt with the newly risen zombie. They pulled him back to another blanket and he collapsed gratefully. He said softly in Thalassian, “I had him, almost, but he was just too weak. His heart gave out before I could finish cleansing him of the disease.” His head hit the pillow, and he almost didn’t feel them tuck the other blanket around him or check his own pulse and temperature.

“You did the best you could.”

Kelenar gave a snarl of anger and rose from the rock. Clearly, he wouldn’t be relaxing much. He picked the tome up from where he’d dropped it and stormed inside where it was cooler. Perhaps writing would take his mind off the memories.

I wasn't originally going to write about this. It wasn't particularly special in any way. Last night stands out in my mind not for His mercy, which I am grateful for, but for the ceaseless insanity of the living and for how weak His loyal truly are now. There are hardly any Sin'dorei left, living or dead, who are unchanged. I see petulant children. Blathering idiots. Mindless savages. Ashwake, I think, stands out in my mind as one of the few who truly reflect what I once was.

I care little for pretending to be one of them, of course, but it disgusts me to no end to deal with weakness. These children are weak. They're like the troggs infesting the Titans' cities. They're a twisted mockery of everything that proud and noble race once stood for. I remember, when I was alive, visiting Silvermoon. I made my home in Dalaran, and though my eyes were green as theirs, they looked on me with hostility for wearing the purple robes of the human mage city. Silvermoon was in ruins, but those survivors were so proud. They held their heads high, they enforced order. In those early days, I never saw half-dressed beggars harassing people in the very sanctum of the Blood Knights. They wouldn't have dared. The Blood Knights would never have allowed it.

((Feel free to post in any order, and multiple threads at once is fine. I'm not picky.))

Midnight

It was the night before Kirenestus's banquet, and already his estate was a flurry of activity. Small runestones dotted the grounds. Their glowing runes cast blue light on the plants that the Tauren tended. Due to the corruption in the soil, the effect of the vegetation was less calming and more sinister, but the three men talking in hushed voices on the lawn didn't seem to mind. Kirenestus and Aegnas were both dressed similarly in black robes. The necromancer, Anthalan, was dressed in his usual purple, grey, and green robes. All three were clustered around one runestone, a stone whose ward was problematic. The runes on its surface were strange, spiky, written in demonic script. Its purpose was clearly to obscure Fel magic being performed on the estate.

"Perform the ritual to remove this one, and any others that refer to Fel magic. We'll replace them after the banquet. Strengthen the wards hiding use of the arcane and wards against the undead. Those are wards one would expect here." Aegnas ordered the others around as if he were in charge, and Kirenestus just nodded at Anthalan and they got to work.

Late Morning

The estate was teeming, with people darting here and there across the grounds and from one building to the other. Not all of them were Kirenestus's employees. He'd arranged for deliveries from Silvermoon City, as well. Fine wine, floral arrangements, deliveries of food he wouldn't be making. On top of the preparations, Aegnas and Solandis were also going over the grounds in detail, with the necromancer, Anthalan, following them. Each point in the grounds that one of Kirenestus's demons used to patrol was assigned to one of the undead the three of them had been collecting. The ghoul, Tombstalker, was assigned to the grounds furthest from the house. The geist jumped from spire to balcony to ramp on the main house, keeping watch, occasionally landing on one of the two undead gargoyles under Anthalan's control.

In his rooms, though, Kirenestus lay in a wide marble bath. Candlelight glinted off of bubbles in the water, and the entire room smelled of the sweet-scented herbs used in the soap. Kirenestus looked as if he was asleep in the warm water. Hanging nearby, his dress clothes also shimmered in the low light. Purple robes in a style favored by the Sin'dorei, and a necklace with a large, purple crystal.

Early Afternoon

The scent of food was positively mouthwatering around the estate. Turkey and stuffing were cooked, along with Sin'dorei specialties like herb-rubbed lynx steak, Springpaw appetizers, and little spiced and roasted balls of Ghostlands bat meat. There was more exotic fare, too. Wildfowl ginseng soup. Spicy salmon roast. Steamed crab. Stir fry. All recipes from Pandaria. The dessert table could barely be seen beneath the pumpkin pie, rice pudding, peach pie, chocolate cake, and even ice cream that laid on it. On another table, all manner of beverages lay waiting on someone to serve them. From the non-alcoholic apple cider, juice, egg nog and tea, to bottles of Suntouched Reserve, lager, kungaloosh, and rum. People ran to and fro, making sure that plates were clean and silver was polished

That evening

The estate was resplendent, each delicate spire of the manor wrapped in Winter Veil decorations, runestones glowing in the shadows, a light coating of snow and ice on the ground, probably due more to the efforts of the death knight still wandering the grounds than any natural phenomenon. The undead guards wandered, but did not stop any guests. Solandis stood at attention at the gate into the estate, checking invitations. The tauren, Authalka, brought steaming dishes out from the kitchen and laid them on the table with the rest of the food. Shadows were deep inside the manor, and more than once, one moved slightly, as if someone were watching from it. Not a demon was seen on the estate.

Kirenestus himself was dressed in purple Sin'dorei robes. His hair was neatly pulled back. He looked every inch a respectable member of the Sin'dorei. He waited near the door to the manor to greet his guests.

This entry is so long overdue, I hardly know where to begin. It has been nearly a year since I touched pen to paper, and so much has happened my life is hardly recognizable anymore.

Sendrian Dawnblaze is no more. When I was recognized in Venomspite, on the way to kill Sunthistle, it started a chain reaction. It got to the point I could no longer enter Silvermoon without the guards staring at me and following me. So I no longer craft leather goods. I no longer use the name of Sendrian. In fact, I've changed my hair and rid myself of the armor I used to wear.

Perhaps I was a little too arrogant in my assumptions about my new cover identity, though. Setekh is a mercenary, the type to take any job if the gold is right. His hair, though, is bright red, my natural hair color, because I cannot guarantee I'll be able to dye it on a regular enough basis to justify changing the color. It's long, where I used to prefer short, back when I used my own name. He wears heavy leathers, the type I used to wear in Northrend over warm clothing, because his work is far more hands-on than Sendrian's was. He is happy, flirtatious, the type of person that attracts little suspicion. I feel safe acting as him. Probably, that is why I slipped up.

Setekh works mostly for the Horde. He has several open contracts for Horde forces in Pandaria. Some of those contracts are things I would have done during the war. Sneak into a camp and quietly kill the leader. I was good at that, and I still am. But in camp, around the orcs and Hozen, he is joking, flirtatious, fun. Completely unlike me. Still, I wass called in to see the commander today.

She knew my real name. It was the first time I've been truly impressed with an orc. She was more of a leader than many of the Sin'dorei I've encountered recently. She had my entire file from the guards in Shattrath City. Every assassination I'd been linked to. Every poisoning attempt they'd found out about. Everything they knew. And she knew it wasn't even half of what I'd done in the war. She wasn't there to arrest me, either.

She offered me a chance to earn a pardon for my crimes, in exchange for working on more dangerous assignments for the Horde. I'm tempted to take her offer. As much as I enjooy my freedom and as much as the Horde disgusts me, freedom to go as I please is a terribly tempting idea.

Aegnas kicks at the door harder, and when it still doesn’t open, he steps back, speaking to someone, or maybe several someones, in a strange tongue. Suddenly, many hands are banging wetly on the door. There are sickening crunches, too. Obviously, Aegnas has several undead with him.

Rosefica makes a noise, muffled by the sound of wet crunches. She points to the door and sends the Void Lord forth, escaping to her ritual room.

Aegnas gives the door another hard kick, the undead with him adding their weight to it, and the door splinters and springs open. He yells out in what Rosefica might recognize as the Scourge tongue, and half a dozen undead crowd through the door ahead of Aegnas, who draws his runed axes, then sees the void lord standing there. He grins. “You’re only making this more satisfying, Rosefica.”( Read more...Collapse )